


prison, flowers and a whole lot of books

by skeleton_high



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is a writter, Aziraphale's family are assholes, Crowley and Anathema Device are Friends (Good Omens), Crowley is an ex-con, Ex-con!Crowley, M/M, Prison AU, Ratings will be updated too, Tags May Change, Writter!Aziraphale, rich Aziraphale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-10-26 01:51:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20734292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeleton_high/pseuds/skeleton_high
Summary: Crowley was thrity-two years old when he arrived to Mr. Fell's residence. Prior to that he had spent four and a half years in the Wormwood Scrubs prison, down in West London, serving time charged on account of robbery. He never would've tought the National Ex-Con Support Program, or NECSP, would help him find the family he tought he never would have again.





	1. new chances

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you'll like this AU! Enjoy!

Crowley looked up the sky feeling the breeze on his face. There were no clouds today and the weather couldn't be better. Still, he found himself unsure, nervous and helpless. He put his hand on the pocket of his jeans and took a couple steps outside. A door behind him closed forcefully, and he was left alone, with nothing else but his clothes, his wallet, phone and and an address stored away in a cheap carton portfolio along with other legal papers. Securing his sunglasses for what it seemed the third time already he walked towards the bus stop on the other side of the metal fence. All and all it was a good day, no matter how scary it might feel. Today, Anthony J. Crowley had officially finished doing his time on the Wormwood Scrubs Prison. Today, Crowley was free again.

He had waited for this day ever since the first day he stepped inside the prison. He remembered that day clear as water. The submission. A nakedness that wasn't only physical, even though every inexistent God knew that had been a horror too. Crowley didn't know what exactly he had expected the moment he heard the sentence, five years in a state prison, but now that he was free again he knew it wasn't this. Whatever he would've thought prison was like couldn't compare with the hollowness he felt right now, staring at the two towers of the prison he had grown so familiar with for the past four and a half years and feeling as if they were staring right back at him. No, he wouldn't miss prison at all.

The bus was late, and sitting at the waiting bench was frankly starting to get boring. His left leg bounced up and down anxiously desperate to leave, to finally get far, far away from there and just forget about that it existed at all. He was out, yes, but it didn't feel like it yet. He tought about his old cellmate, Hastur. He had gotten out before him, five months ago. He wondered for a while what he had felt sitting in the same spot. It was stupid, really. He hadn't really got know him too much, Hastur was a reserved man almost paranoid at some times, but if Crowley had picked up something about him it was thar Hastur didn't have a good bone in his body. He probably had called his old gang, the one he always so proudly talked about, the moment he had stepped out of the facility. Hell, they had probably come pick him up, he could picture it, a wagon full of badass criminals shooting guns at the air screaming like madman. Yeah. That was realistic.

Before he could rack him brain any further the bus arrived. He paid the driver with the money they gave him for the bus. He had fifty pounds on his wallet too, but he wasn't planning on touching that money any time soon. Maybe just to buy himself lunch once he got to Mayfair. He had to treat himself to something, after all, he had just gotten his freedom back. 

The bus was almost empty, some students sat on the front, comparing notes and talking a bit too loudy for Crowley's taste. In the middle there was an old lady who gave him a long hard look. Crowley didn't need that either. So he sat on the back, right on the very last seat by the window. Feeling the bus move under his feet felt like a surreal thing. It was almost new, and for a moment Crowley felt as if he might cry. Luckily, he didn't, and even if he had he always had his glasses, his beloved glasses he had missed so much. He almost had forgotten how it felt to wear them, to not have all eyes constantly on him. It was as if he were normal again. He didn't feel normal at all, but at least he could cover his devil like eyes. In prison they didn't let him wear them at all. He had tried them to make an exception with it at first of course, had made a whole thing out of it, even requested formally to talk with the governor, but in the end it had been useless. He remembered the first month he had spent without them, feeling transparent and naked. Some cons had bothered him about it, but after a while it had all died down. It hadn't been as bad as he had expected, just uncomfortable, unbelievably uncomfortable. Some cons had even feared his eyes, the most superstitious ones stayed out of his way for the most time. Having no irises on his eyes gave that dangerous effect. No one liked to stare at the two black pools devoid of any feelings after all. Looking back now it had come in handy having his eyes. Apart from the nasty comments and the horrors he had lived and witnessed through the first year, it had been the hardest by far, people had left him alone most of the time. The whole experience hadn't been as movies pictured it, if you didn't draw much attention to yourself people tended to leave you alone. Crowley had even found some joy joining the botanic course the prison offered, and working in the prison's hibernacle had been by far the best job he could do inside the prison. He didn't even have to go near the laundry room, the most requested job on prison and one of the most dangerous areas. His stay in prison could have been much worse all in all, but Crowley had decided he would do everything in his power to never go into that shit hole ever again.

The first ten minutes of the ride he stared at the passing landscape aimlessly, thinking about nothing and everything at the same time. Every stop was closer to home, a home he hadn't set foot in now almost six years. Crowley wasn't sure it could be considered a home anymore. It wasn't his mother's house, he barely remembered the layout and it was definitely not his anymore. He hadn't pay the rent in years so now it probably would be occupied by someone else. He had left all of his stuff with his neighbour, that sweet old lady across his door who had phoned him to the prison, noticing him she had collected all she could from the flat before the owner had rented it to someone else. Crowley had called her some days ago, hoping she still held onto his things, and had been terribly relieved when she had asked him to come over and pick them up the moment he got out.

As he clutched the carton portfolio near to his chest, he thought about his future. At least he had somewhere to land on, he thought, but it was a bitter and sarcastic thought. After getting his sentence reduced for good conduct the second year, his counselor had gotten him into this program, a supposed reformative program for ex-cons to help them find a more rightful job than the ones they usually got. The program offered a place to stay in change of working for the house owner. He had gone through many interviews, background checks and psychological evaluations before they had selected him. In all honesty he had agree to all of that just because it was time away from his cell, and most importantly, other cons. For some reason, the people on the program council had thought of him as a good fit, and by the fourth year he had gotten assign to a household. On one hand, Crowley was relieved he didn't have to work as a cashier just to get back on his feet, but on the other, he wasn't too sure about it either. The counselor had been more excited than he was the day she told him he had been selected into the program. Crowley hadn't been as excited. He would have to go live in a place he didn't know, with people who would most definitely judge him. And even though he hated the idea of just crashing at some stranger's house for at least a year, he had already memorized the address the counselor gave him. The home he would be living in was on the outskirts of London and belonged to a Mr. Fell. He didn't know this Mr. Fell at all, and for all he knew he was just another pretentious prick looking for a charity case. The name sure as hell sounded posh. Sighing he shook his head trying to convince himself that it was a good thing. It would certainly be better than homelessness. It would be like a fresh start. Yes, exactly that. This could be his fresh start. He wasn't sure of it yet, but it would be. It had to be. Otherwise he didn't see much of a future for him.

* * *

The bus luckily left him a couple of streets away from his old building. The streets of Mayfair where just as alive as he remembered them, maybe even more (or maybe it just was the fact he hadn't walked among, normal, well-behaved citizens in years that made the streets look crowdier than ever). Walking down to the building felt like a long travesty and every step he took he had to look behind him, feeling as if someone would come at him and knock him down, trying to put cuffs on him again. Having his normal clothes back again was weird too, he was used by now to the softness of the uniform they had back in Wormwood so the hard fabric of his jeans was and interesting experience. His belt barely kept them from falling off his hips, and his button up shirt felt as if it were at least two sizes bigger. Crowley had always been skinny, but this was a whole new level. He felt awkward as he walked down the street limping and trying his best for his pants not to fall off.

When he got to the building it was exactly as he remembered it. Not completely exactly though, it looked cleaner and the Interphone with all the flat's numbers was finally repaired, but it was there. He pressed his old neighbor's number, hoping she'd be home and fearing he'd have to stand on the street for who know how much time until she decided to return, but luckily she responded quickly.

“_Who is it?”_

Crowley cleared his throat and hoped he could get his point across, hating how creaky his voice sounded.

“Yes, I am Crowley? Anthony Crowley, I used to live in front of you and-” he stuttered nervously.

“_Oh Anthony, please come up, I've been waiting for you”_

The door opened with a buzz and Crowley got in before he missed his chance and had to go bothering the lady again. At the top of the stairs, Mrs. Evans waited for him with a smile on her face.

“Anthony! Come here and gimme a hug!”

The tone was so affectuos Crowley hadn't got it in him to correct her. What would he say anyway? Actually, I'm Crowley I don't like being called Anthony and I am here to collect the things that have crowded your apartment for almost five years now? It was stupid and irrational. Still hearing his own name was better than hearing a number, no matter how much he hated his first name.

Mrs. Evans looked older, not that it was a surprise he had spent six years without visiting the apartment in Mayfair after all, but it shocked him a little seeing her resting on a cane and with more wrinkles on her face that he remembered her having. When he reached the top of the stairs she pulled him into said hug, resting her bony fingers around his equally bony waist. Crowley yelped quietly at the feeling, it was intrusive, and awkward, and everything he hadn't had since a very long time. A touch without second intentions. A warm affectionate touch. Once Mrs. Evans pulled back, Crowley could feel tears on the corners of his eyes. It was ridiculous how touchy he was being today. 

“Come on boy, you must be wanting to get all of your things back, I have them all here” she said, walking inside the flat. Crowley closed the door carefully behind him, using the time to quickly dry any menacing tears off of his face. When he turned back, Mrs. Evans was already on the living room sitting down on her very soft looking pink couch. She was such a talker she didn't even notice Crowley sniffing quietly behind her.

“I put it all in here, I hope it will do, this one are all the clothes I found” she said, pointing at one of the two huge suitcases that rested on the living room, accompanied by a black backpack “And this one is for the statue you had, the one with the angel and the demon? I thought you may want to keep it, and some books you had, they are there too. And your shoes, you had quite a collection. Oh, and your records too! The backpack has some snacks in it and water, you must be tired of prison food, aren't you darling? Oh and I put a couple of bills in there too, I don't want you starving out there”

Crowley had paused once he'd seen the bags. They were new suitcases, definitely not his, bright red and sharp-looking. The backpack was black, big and sturdy; one of the travelling ones, Crowley could tell it was a name brand. He sucked on a breath, not knowing quite what to say.

“I didn't- These are new I can't accept-”

“Oh nonsense boy, how will you carry your things then?” she laughed shaking her head “Have you eaten yet?”

“Can I- May I sit down for a bit, I just-”

Crowley felt suddenly weak on his knees. It was almost too much, too much familiarity and love and affection, everything he had avoided for so long.

“Of course Anthony, I am being so rude, you must want to rest for a bit” Mrs. Evans exclaimed, patting the seat next to her on the couch. Crowley plopped down ungracefully and for a moment they both stayed quiet. Crowley had never been inside Mrs. Evans home, not even once. Not in the eight years he had been renting the opposite flat. It looked exactly as he imagined it would look, and he hadn't imagined it many times. The layout was familiar, almost too familiar and if he closed his eyes for a second he knew he would be able to picture his own apartment, the one he had once owned, without a problem. Mrs. Evans's was the complete opposite of his. She had pictures all over the walls, framed and neat without a spec of dust on them. The open kitchen was clean too, a book of recipies by the counter and an open journal on the dinning table. On the coffee table, right in front of Crowley there were a lot of magazines, almost all about crochet and sewing.

“You can sleep in my son's old room if you don't have a place to stay”

Crowley heard her, but didn't really listen. He had been staring at the apartment, feeling the soft plumpness of the couch beneath him. Mrs. Evans's words hit Crowley after some seconds.

“I've got a place to stay actually” smiled Crowley shyly “You don't have to worry. I'll get out of your hair in a minute”

“You aren't any trouble darling” Mrs. Evans said softy looking at him over her glasses. Crowley almost laughed at that. Trouble was in his DNA, trouble had brought him here and trouble would probably kill him eventually. Crowley got up from the sofa and walked over to the bags.

“Are you leaving now?” Mrs. Evans asked sadly “You should at least take a shower. I left the bathroom ready for you, there's a towel for you in the sink”

Crowley looked up from the bags incredulous. The degree of amiability he was finding in that lady he hadn't seen in years was overwhelming. Something in his mind wanted to say no, to just grab his things and go. It was, after all, what he had come here for. But if he was being honest a shower, a real shower where he could actually soap himself in complete privacy sounded like an excellent idea and the way Mrs. Evans looked at him made him think that even if he tried to say no, she wouldn't let him.

“I'm going to ah, look for a change of clothes then” he said, while laying one of the suitcases on the floor and opening it, hoping it was the clothes one “These don't fit much anymore”

“Of course Anthony, I'll make some tea while you do that. Take all the time you need” Mrs. Evans said, rising from her spot on the couch and going to the kitchen, leaving Crowley to search between his old wardrobe. 

Thankfully the first suitcase he opened was the right one and it was filled with clean clothes neatly folded. Looking at them now was like looking into someone else's life, a life that was somewhat buried in the past but that he recognized nonetheless. After going through the clothes he decided on a simple band t-shirt, one of his favorites with the famous banana of that Velvet Underground album printed on the front, and the tightest pair of pants he remembered owning (they were a black leather pair, far too juvenile for his age, but that didn't really matter to Crowley). Turning around he got in the bathroom, closing the door behind him and locking it. A sense of security ran over him the moment he was alone. It was strange, how much peace came over him just by being alone, with no one looking over him and without having to look over his shoulder. Without hesitation he got off his clothes. They weren't dirty per se but they still had the distinctive prison odor that made him sick.

He turned on the shower and let the water flow, wanting it as hot as possible. While he waited he caught a glimpse of himself on the mirror and shuddered. He had never been this thin. His ribs showed and his face looked hollow, like a skeleton. Crowley didn't like the image, so he turned around and got in the shower, decided to avoid mirrors from now on.

The shower was short, it didn't feel right wasting Mrs. Evans's water just because, not after all the kindness she had given him. The clothes he had picked did fit him better, they were loose around the edges but they weren't so obviously bigger than the others. After pacing around the bathroom for a bit he happily found that he pants didn't fall off when he walked either, so he would be able to walk normally. Picking up the dirty clothes he walked out of the bathroom.

Mrs. Evans was on the couch sipping on a cup of tea with the telly on. Another cup was on the coffee table waiting for him.

“Do you like the bags? My son Charles helped me choose them. He has an eye for this things” she said as he packed away his clothes.

“Yes, they are fantastic. I am really thankful Mrs. Evans, I really am” muttered Crowley, finding it hard to speak. He stood besides the bags awkwardly, not knowing quite what to do. It felt weird not having someone order him around and tell him what to do. Fortunately he didn't have to think more, Mrs. Evans patted the couch besides her, gesturing him to sit besides her.

“It's really not a problem darling” she answered, smiling sweetly “I am happy to see you well”

Crowley forced a smiled on his face and grabbed his cup of tea, sipping carefully. Turning his eyes on the TV he let himself lose his thoughts to the soap opera that was playing. It was nice for a moment, to watch TV and hear Mrs. Evans reactions to the show. It was clear it was one of her favorites and it was almost amusing watching her get mad at the characters when they did something she didn't approve of. He stayed there with her for two more episodes.

* * *

He left before lunch time, hoping the ride to Mr. Fell's house wouldn't be too long. Mrs. Evans hugged him again after insisting that he stayed for lunch, but he refused politely, feeling awkward enough for receiving all that kindness. Before he left Mrs. Evans gave him a piece of paper with her phone number on it.

“Promise me you'll call sometime” she asked kindly “If you need anything don't hesitate to ask”

Making a mental note to buy a cellphone before leaving London he assured her he would call, holding her hands tightly. It felt wrong leaving her behind, but it would've felt even worse staying. At the back of his head he could hear that voice, telling him he didn't deserve all the gentleness he had received. And it was overwhelming. Once he stepped out of the building and faced the busy streets again, he knew he had to get out of the city.

Walking through the streets dragging two huge suitcases behind him was just as hard as he imagined. The fact that it was June, midday and fucking hot didn't make anything better. His arms felt weak carrying the bags and he barely made it to St. James before he collapsed on a bench, sweaty, tired and overwhelmed. He hadn't been there in almost six years now.

It certainly would've been quicker to call a taxi the moment he was on the streets, leave London and avoid the torturous walk, but something inside him didn't want to leave so soon. He didn't know what to expect of the house, or the chores he would have to do once he got there. He hoped there wouldn't be a lot of physical work involved, he felt his bones weak and fragile. Sighing he reclined on the bank and stared at the ducks that swam in the lake. It was very strange looking at the water and the threes, he even picked up a leaf and stroked it, feeling it break under his fingers. I did feel wonderful. Inside all he saw was concrete walls, steel and the same bloody miserable faces everyday.

He decided to eat the lunch Mrs. Evans had prepared him right there, in the bank, and it was delightful. The food tasted heavenly, even if it was just home-made fish and chips. He ate every bite of it tasting it carefully. Happy he wouldn't have to eat prison food anymore, he threw away the food wrappings and laid down on the bank again, looking at the threes above him. This was the most content he'd been since getting out, he realized, but as much as he wanted to stay there, lying on a bench on the verge of sleep, it probably wouldn't be the wisest thing to do.

At four seventeen of the afternoon, Crowley got up of the bench and went in search of a taxi. It would be an hour before he reached Mr. Fell's house.


	2. home?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley arrives to Mr. Fell's Residence. Anathema and Newt meet him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I am very happy you are interested in this AU! I hope you'll like this new chapter. And don't worry! We'll meet Aziraphale the next chapter. I will update every two days, so see you on Thursday! :) Thanks for reading!!!

The taxi driver was kind of an asshole, if you asked Crowley. He was a middle-aged man, with a frown deep enough for someone to swipe a credit card through it. After Crowley hailed him he hadn't made the tiniest bit of effort to help him put the suitcases in the back, he had just waved his hand to the truck and sat on the driver's seat, unbothered. Crowley had been left alone to lift them on his own, hurting his wrist a little in the process. And when he had complained, the driver had the guts to smirk and give him a dirty look. On other occasions maybe Crowley would've told him to fuck off, and just get another taxi, but he was too defeated and tired to care. Once he had given the address and sat on the back he forgot about the asshole driver, opting to stare through the window mindlessly. It felt like being in a movie, watching people walking, glancing into other people's cars and wondering who they were with the muffled sound of the radio on the background. Soon the city landscape turned to long highways full of cars. Crowley wished he had a car of his own, driving had always felt liberating and now he found himself missing that feeling more than ever.

Mr. Fell's house was just on the outsides of the little town of Tadfield, just twenty minutes away from Oxford, far enough from the city for the traffic to be nonexistent. As they passed through the town Crowley thought it was peaceful and hoped the house would be just as quiet. Just ten minutes away from Tadfield, they arrived.

In the middle of the woods, just over a hill, there was a tall wall delimiting the perimeter and a fenced gate with a cement pathway leading to the house behind it. The house itself was massive, just seeing it from afar was impressive. The taxi stopped by the fence and Crowley felt his mouth run dry. For a moment he wondered if someone had messed up the address.

“Are you going to get off or not?” the driver asked, in a tone he could have very well spared. Crowley hesitated for a bit. He had to be at the right place. The government was incompetent but they surely wouldn't mess up this big.

“Will you wait for a moment here?” he asked back, leaving the car. He figured he could just ask through the intercom on the gate if it was the right place.

Either way, he didn't need to ask, because once he got close enough to the gate he noticed a plaque over the intercom.

_A.Z. FELL RESIDENCE_

That made everything easier, Crowley thought, putting the fear of being in the wrong place behind him. He still pressed the button, and waited for someone to respond.

“_Who is this?”_

Whoever answered him sounded young, and definitely male. Crowley wondered for a moment if it was Mr. Fell himself, but erased the thought quickly. He doubted someone so young could own such a massive house and let alone be interested in an ex-con reformation program. It was probably the butler or someone like that, maybe it was the freaking pool boy. Whoever owned a house like that sure as hell must have staff.

“I'm Anthony Crowley, I ah- come from Wormwood Scrubs. For the NECSP program, I'm not sure if they told you I'd be out today...”

Crowley shifted nervously on his feet. As he talked he noticed the intercom's camera and felt exposed. The growing silence unnerved him.

“_Oh yes, we expected you” _the voice finally says, and for a moment Crowley heard the anxiety on the other person's words. It would be amusing if it wasn't for his own anxiety, creeping up his bones with every passing second _“You can, I'll open the gates we can meet at the main door”_

The intercom beeped and it was over. The gates automatically opened, so Crowley got into the car again, ignoring the look the driver gave him.

The pathway was lined up with trees at the sides, Crowley could tell they were tulip trees looking very neglected, the branches could use a good trimming. The immense front yard was also a mess, bad herbs growing everywhere and the weeds more than a foot tall. The path led to a small round stone square, with a fountain in the middle. It was as poorly cared for as the rest of the yard. The fountain had growing mold all over and the water was suspiciously yellow. As soon as the car stopped, a young man stepped out of the house and walked over to them.

“That'll be 62 pounds lad”

Crowley paid and got out quickly, turning around the car to get the suitcases.

“Hello, I'm Newt. Newton Pulsifer. Do you need help?”

Crowley turned around and let once of the suitcases drop to the ground making a loud _'thump' _in the process. The man was indeed young, couldn't be older than thirty, and wore an outfit that couldn't be described as anything but good, nerdy boy. He even had rectangular glasses completing the look.

“Nah, I'm good” he answered as he struggled with the second one. That Newt boy didn't seem to care for Crowley's words since he grabbed the suitcase from the other side and helped him carry it to the ground. As soon as Newt closed the trunk of the car, the taxi drove off and left, leaving Crowley very much alone.

“So, am, are you like Mr. Fell's son, or...”

“Oh no, Aziraphale doesn't have any children. I just live here” he answered nervously, with a hand on his waist as he pushed his glasses up further into his face “I'm staying until I finish uni. Anathema is too, she's out now, I don't think you'll meet her today, she has night classes. I don't have any classes today so I can help you if you need anything. I go to Oxford”

“Good for you” let out Crowley sarcastically. Newt went red at the cheeks and turned around to grab a suitcase. He rambled a lot, Crowley thought, and honestly, it was giving him a bit of a headache. He carried the other suitcase while Newt guide him into the house dragging behind him the other one. Crowley almost complained at that if it weren't for his sore writs. Still, he didn't like a stranger handling so clumsily his possessions. The nerves made him weak on the knees too, and he almost tripped on the carpet once they entered the big reception lounge.

The first thing he noticed was how clean and polished every thing was. The wooden floors were spotless and the wide staircase in the end of the room looked like taken out of a movie. Newt walked through the lounge and opened the door by the side of the stairs. Crowley followed, looking around dumbfounded. Newt led him to a bedroom on the back of the house, just next to the kitchen.

“This will be your room. All the rooms upstairs are occupied, I hope this one is big enough for you” he said, leaving the suitcase by the door.

The room was big, much, much bigger than his cell. The walls were white and the ceiling high. It had a double bed in the middle with a wooden frame, right under a wide window that gave to the backyard and a closet on the right side. It had a wooden desk too next to the bed. Crowley didn't believe this was going to be his room from now on.

“You have a door to the garden, you can lock it up if you want, the key's supposed to be on the desk's drawer. There's a bathroom on the end of the hall, no one really uses it so you can take it. I think that's all”

Crowley walked around the room and sat on the bed, feeling the softness under him. Newt stood by the door awkwardly, doubting if he should leave or not.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked politely, and Crowley could tell he wanted to leave.

“Yes, I- ah, just wondered if I could talk to Mr. Fell? Or can I talk to you about the job? They told me once I got here someone would tell me what I have to do...”

“Oh, yes, I forgot. Aziraphale told me he'd send Madame Tracy in the morning, and you'd talk then. Better let you rest for now, you must be tired, I mean you look exhausted” mumbled Newt.

Not bothering to fake a smile, Crowley nodded and muttered a thanks between his teeth. Newt nodded back and left, closing the door behind him.

Crowley thought briefly about changing his clothes before falling to the bed, asleep, not bothering to get under the covers.

* * *

When he woke up, the sun was already down, but it wasn't dark yet. He sat up on the bed, taking off his glasses and rubbed his eyes a bit. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep but he didn't really care. Feeling too cold, he lifted the sheets beneath him and got inside, closing his eyes again.

* * *

The second time he woke up it was morning. He opened his eyes to the sound of birds chirping in the outside, soft sunlight creeping through the window and a sore arm. He'd slept right on top of it and now it was all cramped. He forced himself out of the bed, even if he didn't really want to, and searched for his glasses that were missing somewhere in the sheets.

Not knowing what to do he began unpacking his bags. The closet was big enough for his clothes, it even had space at the bottom for the statue of the wrestling angels Mrs. Evans had packed in the second suitcase. It was all wrapped up with bubble paper and tape, Crowley didn't bother unwrapping it before putting it away on the closet. The CDs went into the desk, he wasted sometime lining them up and arranging them alphabetically, just because he could. Once he finished with the CDs, he retrieved the key to the backyard door from the drawer and chose to lock it, just in case.

He was in the middle of shoving a suitcase under the bed when a soft knock on the door startled him. Hesitantly he stood up and walked to open it.

“Good morning, I'm Madame Tracy, the housekeeper” a middle aged woman dressed in a black uniform-type dress held her hand for Crowley to take. She had big soft reddish hair that stopped right above her shoulders and Crowley was secretly glad he wasn't the only redhead around, even if the woman's hair looked more dyed than natural.

“Er, I'm Crowley” he said nervously.

“Nice to meet you Crowley” replied Madame Tracy with a smile “Breakfast is ready if you'd like to eat something. Aziraphale said you could see him in his office after”

“Ah, okay. Yes”

“Right”

Madame Tracy was about to turn around and leave when Crowley stopped her.

“Wait, sorry I just, I wondered if I can take a shower? Before breakfast I mean” he asked carefully.

“Of course you can!” smiled Madame Tracy “You don't need to ask. The bathroom is at the end of the hall, you'll find towels in the cabinet”

With that, she left. Crowley watched her walk down the hall to the kitchen and only turned around to grab his clothes when she was no longer on sight.

* * *

He showered as quickly as he could. The bathroom was small and old, but Crowley didn't mind at all. It was nice finally being able to piss alone with no one around him. He changed into another t-shirt, a Queen one this time, and some black sweatpants. They were loose around the hips like his other pants, but he could tie them up tightly with the elastic band. So far these had been the most comfortable pair of pants he'd worn in the outside. Once he had finished dressing and secured carefully his glasses, he put a tower over his shoulders and headed out to the kitchen.

He could hear some voices from the hall, a woman and what sounded like Newt. Even if he didn't like Newt very much he was glad there'd be someone he already knew there.

“Eh, good morning” he said standing awkwardly on the doorway to the kitchen. Newt and some girl were sitting on the kitchen table while Madame Tracy was by the stove, flipping what seemed to be pancakes.

“Good morning” Newt answered half smiling. The girl looked at him carefully and smiled.

“Hello. I'm Anathema” she said with a strong american accent.

Crowley nodded and looked around nervously. The kitchen was big, big table, big counter and big windows that gave to the yard. It was a modern kitchen, with a design that didn't really fit into the old style of the house.

“May I sit?” he asked as politely as he could, shoving his glasses as far as they'd go up his face.

“Oh, yes, of course” Newt said, waving his hand around to the table awkwardly. Crowley could hardly blame him, the whole situation was awkward as hell.

He sat on the table, putting a bit of distance between him and the other two. Thankfully, Madame Tracy put a plate of pancakes in front of him before anyone could try to start any kind of conversation. He thanked her and turned his stare into the plate, deciding it was the most interesting thing on the world. Still, he could feel them staring at him as he put syrup over the pancakes.

“So, you're Crowley right?” asked the girl in a very marked american accent, just when Crowley was about to bite into the pancakes. He looked up and nodded, putting on the fakest smile he could manage. Turning back to the pancakes he ate a piece and the most embarrassing sound came out of him. He felt his cheeks flush and refused to even lift his stare, knowing the other two would be looking at him. He blamed prison food; it had been long since he had tasted something as sweet as those pancakes, and this was the first breakfast he'd eaten in five years without having to check for worms first.

“And you just got out of prison?” the girl asked again and Crowley glared at her, not quite believing how forward she was being. Newt let a gasp and whispered what only could be interpreted as a very anxious _'Anathema!'. _Crowley considered not even answering, but something in her eyes was daring and, most importantly, looked genuinely interested.

“Yeah. Just yesterday” he said, mouth full of pancakes. Newt looked positively scared and Crowley stared at him. It was kind of amusing the way he avoided looking at him. Anathema on the other hand was looking at him intensely.

“What did you do?” she asked suddenly, not even caring one bit.

“Anathema!” yelped Newt out loud this time, looking at her as if she'd gone crazy.

“Are you scared I'm going to murder you on your sleep?” he teased uninterestingly, still more interested in the pancakes than in the conversation. He figured from now on he'd better get accustomed to talk about his criminal history. Newt gulped, looking livid. If Crowley didn't have his mouth full of pancakes he'd probably laugh.

“Nah” Anathema said smugly sipping on her tea “You don't look like a murderer”

Crowley smirks and bites into his pancakes once more.

“It was armed robbery. Don't ask me why I did it, I'm not going to answer that. I was in for four and a half years” he said. It felt like ripping a band-aid off his skin but it left a bitter taste on his tongue. Admitting his criminal background to strangers was a very strange feeling. _'I better get used to it'_ Crowley thought, it was part of his life now, like it or not he couldn't just erase it.

“Well that's good” Anathema replied, and he honestly didn't want to know what she'd meant with that, so he just turned his eyes to the plate once again.

They kept eating in silence for a while. Crowley felt mostly okay, the interactions hadn't been as bad as he'd imagined. Feeling bold, he broke the silence.

“So, are you the only ones living here?”

“Yes. Well, us and Aziraphale. He owns the house of course” answered Anathema “No one else. Shadwell comes on Mondays from the city to bring Aziraphale books though, he doesn't like going out too much. If you want something from the city you can make a list and I'll give it to Shadwell next monday”

Crowley nodded, feeling relieved. For a moment everything was alright.

“Why the glasses?”

Crowley paused frowning, fork mid-way to his mouth. The words cut sharply, bringing nasty feelings out.

“None of your goddamned business” he replied dropping the fork on the plate bitterly, tasting copper in his mouth. Of course the girl had to comment on that. He should've seen it coming. Deciding he was full he got up and left the plate by the sink.

“Would you show me where's Mr. Fell's office please?” he asked Madame Tracy, who was staring at him with wide eyes. Anathema and Newt were quiet too, one glancing at him with furrowed eyebrows and the other looking at anything but him. He hated the feeling. They stared at him as if they were scared of him, or worse, pitied him. It all made him hate himself more.

“Oh, yes, just follow me” Madame Tracy nodded, dropping a drap on the sink and making her way out of the kitchen. Crowley didn't look back when he followed her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments make me write faster! Thank you all for reading you make my day! 
> 
> You can find me at @heavenlyfuckers or @mrdrugzzz. Talk to me I'm bored always!


	3. names and faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, Mr Fell is here! (he really prefers Aziraphale) I hope to publish the fourth chapter by monday, hang in there and I hope you'll enjoy the story!

Madame Tracy guided him to the first floor. They went up the main stairs, Crowley remembered being impressed with them the day before, and he was still impressed once he had climbed them. The first floor was as impressive as the ground floor. It had a lot of hallways too, Crowley thought, as they passed through them. They stopped by a small waiting room with a huge glass window giving to the back yard and a big wooden door on the left.

“Wait here” Madame Tracy said, pointing to a sofa “I'll go tell him you're here”

She disappeared through the door, leaving Crowley alone with his thoughts. He felt out of place, wrong. Surely Mr. Fell would notice. All the others had. He didn't belong here. He didn't even know why he had even enrolled on the program anymore. He should've refused, here he didn't even have his freedom. It would be like prison all over again.

“He's ready to see you Crowley” Madame Tracy announced, coming out of the room “I'll go downstairs now, I'll be in the kitchen if you need anything”

She turned around and left, leaving the doors to Aziraphale's office open. Crowley sighed and forced himself to stand up, wishing the whole meeting to end as soon as it could. It would, probably, end soon anyway. There was no way someone could look twice at Crowley and decide, _'Oh, yes, I want that man to work for me, he seems no trouble at all'. _Crowley sighed again and crossed the door.

* * *

Mr. Fell's office was as predictable as he thought it'd be. It was brown, boring and full of bookshelves. On the middle of the room there was a huge table with two armchairs in front and a window behind with its curtains drawn. The only light on the room was the small electric lamp on the table and the little sunlight that made its way through the thick curtains. Crowley stepped inside tentatively, not quite sure of what he should do. Mr. Fell was sitting by the desk with his head low. He had it resting on his hands, reading what it looked like a bunch of papers. Crowley could only see the top of his head. He had very light blond hair, he noticed, it looked like a soft neon cloud among all the monotone colors of the room.

Crowley stood by the door for some minutes, expecting Mr. Fell to notice him. Every passing second he felt his anxiety grow. When he turned a page and kept reading Crowley wondered if he was doing this on purpose; maybe he liked making people wait for him. Probably was one of those assholes who got off on power play. Still, it made him nervous, so he started fiddling with the end of his shirt. He couldn't get himself to move, something held him back from talking or making any sound to get Mr. Fell's attention. He felt paralyzed. It was like standing on his cell, waiting for instructions.

Mr. Fell kept reading for some more minutes, unaware of Crowley's growing anxiety. When he finally turned his head up to stretch his neck and saw Crowley by the door, he jumped in his seat, gasping.

“How long have you been there?” he asked Crowley with a very marked english accent, frowning and sounding very distressed. His voice was oddly sweet and strangely in-character with his looks.

Crowley didn't answer for a moment. Mr. Fell's face distracted him, he was _young, _younger than Crowley expected. He had thought he would be working for an old man because what young person owns a mansion with their own name engraved in a plate? But then again, maybe that was something rich people liked to do regardless of age, he wouldn't know. Mr. Fell, though, couldn't be over forty years old. His face looked as soft as his bright platinum hair (Crowley wondered if it was dyed or not, either way it looked weirdly right on him). The silver spectacles that rested on his nose were round and small, but with big blue eyes behind them, looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry I-” he answered when he heard Mr. Fell clearing his throat “I just didn't know if you... I don't really know what I should, or if I could- Sorry, just sorry”

He felt his cheeks flush, and he hated every second of it. Mr. Fell didn't look too bothered by his attitude though, and the frown he had vanished in a moment, giving way to the most wholesome, friendly, and beautiful smile Crowley had seen in a very long time. His blue eyes seemed to shine in the dim light of the room and if it weren't for the anxiety inside his chest he'd probably be entranced by it.

“Oh, don't worry dear, you just gave me quite the scare” Mr. Fell said happily, removing his glasses and rubbing his eyes tiredly, but without letting his smile fall off his face “I must apologize, sometimes I seem to lose track of time when I work. Please have a sit”

Crowley let out all the air he'd been holding inside as he quickly sat on the armchair Mr. Fell had gestured.

“Let's start again, yes?” Mr. Fell said, putting all the papers aside on the table next to his reading glasses “My name is Aziraphale Fell, I know, a strange name” he chuckled “my parents were religious people so I blame them. I understand you are Anthony Crowley?”

“Just Crowley, sir” he responded crossing his arms on instinct. He hoped Mr. Fell wouldn't try to call him by his first name. He hated having to correct people and in the end if he really wanted to annoy him and call him Anthony, Crowley didn't have really any power to get him to stop.

“Oh, no. No, no” Aziraphale said, face falling a bit “You don't ever call me that _sir _rubbish. We don't need that around here”

“Oh, okay s-, okay” Crowley answered hesitantly. It was difficult dropping the term.

“Now” started Mr. Fell with a kind smile “Why don't we begin by the basics? You could tell me what you expect of your stay here”

“I, er, I don't know?” Crowley felt sweat on the palms of his hands. The question threw him off, it felt like a trick question, designed so that anything he answered would be wrong.

“No?” asked Mr. Fell, raising an eyebrow. The sweat was starting to form on Crowley's forehead now. He was stuck on his seat, his mind blank.

“Well-” Mr. Fell began saying after a moment “If you-”

“No- no, I didn't mean-” said Crowley “I can answer just...”

Crowley closed his eyes for a second and tried to remember his training. He had actually done mock interviews after they accepted him for the program, and he even had memorized most of the answers, so this shouldn't be too difficult. He put on his best robotic voice and began reciting what he remember from the training.

“I am very happy to have this opportunity. I will do my best to fulfill my tasks and I assure you I am willing to be reformed and I have assisted to many behavioral corrective lessons while in prison, I won't be doing-”

“Crowley, stop” Mr. Fell cut him off with a frown “Just, let's... You don't need to be so formal here, I- no one will look at you twice just because you're an ex-con. If you feel someone staring at you it will probably be for that bright red head of yours” he finished with a chuckle, with that small attempt of a joke.

Crowley didn't laugh, in fact he was even more confused than before. Hearing Mr. Fell actually calling him Crowley had eased his mind a bit, but he still didn't know what he wanted from him. He shifted on his seat uncomfortably and waited for Mr. Fell to talk.

“Why don't we talk about your job instead?” he continued after an awkward pause “It would be useful if you made a list with all the supplies you need to begin with, it's been ages since someone has taken care of the yard, I think you should check the tools on the shed. If they're too old we can buy new ones, don't worry about that, you just make the list and I'll place an order for them”

“I will be taking care of the yard?” Crowley said blinking. That was pleasant news, at last, something he knew what to do.

“Didn't they tell you what you'd be working as before you signed anything?” Mr. Fell asked surprised. Crowley snorted, amused. Now, _that_ was a funny joke.

“Nah, they don't tell us shit in there. We're supposed to be thankful for the opportunity, any more questions will make you get thrown off the program” he said bitterly, before remembering who he was talking with “Not that I'm not thankful, I really am, it's just, ya' know, the prison don't really like questions and that” he said straightening his back on the chair. As always he had to overstep the boundaries.

Mr. Fell however didn't even bat an eye to Crowley's boldness. If anything he looked concerned, for a reason Crowley ignored.

“Well I think that's rather rude of them to keep you in the dark” he said indignantly. Crowley nodded along, agreeing with Mr. Fell. It _was _rude after all.

“I hope you know it won't be like this in here” Mr. Fell added quickly “I don't want to be like- Look, let's just start over once again” he chuckled. Crowley had to smirk at that. Mr. Fell seemed determined to make him feel like a person, and if that meant starting the conversation over twice, he was ready to do so. Crowley was glad to find him very much not-a-snob with a holier-than-thou attitude he thought he'd find.

Coughing a bit Mr. Fell dropped his hands on the table and smiled warmly at him.

“I'm going to introduce myself better first” he said smiling “Like I said before I'm Aziraphale Fell. I'm a writer, I've written mostly religious thesis and commentaries. I am currently writing a modern interpretation of the Bible, studying new and old testaments”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, unsurprised. Writing fit Mr. Fell perfectly, from the glasses of his ridiculous spectacles to the last thread of his waistcoat, although finding that he wrote about religious themes did disappoint Crowley a bit. He had always despised anything that had to do with religion. In his youth he had baptized himself as a nihilist and declared war against any form of God he'd find.Now, though, h e considered himself more of an atheist. God had never done anything for him, no matter how insistent the religious people in his life had been in telling him he'd find Jesus one day. So far the only Jesus he'd met was a Bolivian man still in Woormwood, doing time for double murder.

“I inscribed in the NECSP as an employer for three reasons” Mr. Fell continued “I know how hard it is for people who have a criminal record to find a decent career, and I have the means to give someone a temporary home, so why not?” with a small giggle Crowley found weirdly endearing, Mr. Fell leant back on his chair and rummaged through a drawer on his desk “The second reason has to do with your job. You see, I really need a gardener, and- Here it is!”

He pulled a thick folder out of the drawer and skipped through the pages. Crowley watched him, feeling much more cheerful now that he knew Mr. Fell wanted him to work on the garden.

“Now” he continued, pulling a sheet out of the folder “I've been listed in the programs for about, two years now. I specifically asked for a person with abilities on gardening, botanic, anything in that field of work really. So when they sent me your expedient I thought you'd be a perfect fit in here”

Crowley had to snort at that. Whatever reason Mr. Fell thought any ex-con with a record of armed robbery could be a perfect fit in such a luxurious mansion after the hell hole prison was, he didn't know. Not noticing Crowley, Mr. Fell kept talking.

“Here it says you worked in The Blue House orchard in Greenwich from 2008 to 2012, is that right?” Crowley nodded “And you took care of the prison hibernacle as well. They sent me some photos as reference, and I have to say, you did a splendid job. ” he said smiling. If Crowley blushed a bit, he didn't let it show.

“Thanks” he muttered under his breath. Mr. Fell smiled and put back the sheet

“So will you be fine working on the garden?”

“What if I say no? Will you throw me out of here?” Crowley replied jokingly, feeling bold. Mr. Fell just laughed and shook his head.

“I know you won't say no, Crowley”

“And how are you so sure?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I have a feeling” he answered, and the wrinkles around his eyes grew deeper like his smile “Now, about the job, if you have any questions...”

Crowley only hesitated for a moment before asking.

“Do I have a schedule? Or uniform?” he felt confident, happy his voice hadn't broken.

“You can create your own schedule, I trust you'll organize your time wisely. If you need help with it though, I'm more than willing to help you with it”

“Nah, I can do that”

“As for the clothes, there isn't a uniform per sé, but I will order some work clothes, so that you won't have to ruin your own clothes. Tell Madame Tracy your measurements and I'll place an order. You needn't to worry about the clothes”

“And what do you want me to do exactly with the yard? It's really big and I haven't even seen it whole”

“Oh, yes, it's quite big, isn't it? I was thinking you could decide what to do with it. Just walk around it and think about it, I don't expect you to work right away. When you have an idea of what you want to do tell me, I'm sure I'll agree with whatever you want to do, I trust your taste. If you need to order something for the garden just ask. Money's not an issue”

Crowley felt stunned. If he wasn't so damn tired he'd probably laugh.

“Oh, and I forgot, I'll be paying you by the hour, so just punch your card on the machine when you start and finish working” he said, sliding him a white plastic card with his name on it.

Crowley nodded, surprised he'd get paid at all. He'd been told the program was just and internship made to get references for future jobs, being paid for it had been a dream that hadn't crossed his mind at all. But he didn't even think on telling Mr. Fell that, he wasn't about to question his generosity.

“You may use the kitchen freely, don't worry about the food. You can talk to Madame Tracy if there's something you'd like to have and she'll add it to the shopping list. If you wish to go to the city, please, do tell and I'll arrange a care to take you whenever you need it. I think that's all I have to tell you. Anything else you'd like to ask?”

Crowley shook his head and Mr. Fell clasped his hands together happily emitting a delightful sound that made a knot in Crowley's stomach.

“Well, then that's it. If you ever need anything don't hesitate to ask. You can usually find me here or in the library, if not Madame Tracy always knows where I am”

Mr. Fell rose from his seat and circled the table to meet Crowley. He stood up as well and took the hand Mr. Fell offered him. His hand was as smooth and Crowley expected, nails perfectly manicured with a golden ring in his right pinky.

“It's been a pleasure meeting you Crowley” Mr. Fell said, dropping his hands to the sides “I hope you'll find yourself at home here”

Crowley managed to make a strangled sound and force an awkward smile on his face before he took his cue and left. He was almost by the door when he remembered something.

“Mr. Fell?” he asked, turning back. The other man was on his way to his desk but stopped in his tracks when he heard Crowley's voice. When he turned, he looked surprised “I was wondering if there was a phone I could use”

Mr. Fell was silent for a moment, but his characteristic smile returned soon enough “Yes, of course, you can use the one on the living room as much as you can. I only put one condition. You must never call me Mr. Fell. My name is Aziraphale”

This time Crowley was surprise to find the smile on his own face was genuine. With a polite nod he turned back and left Aziraphale's office.

He was on his way to the living room replaying what had just happened when he realized something. Aziraphale hadn't told him the third reason why he had joined the program.

* * *

The living room was just as luxuriously old as the rest of the house was. The phone, almost a relique, was sitting by the fireplace on a small and tall wooden table, probably built just for it. Crowley stood awkwardly by it while it ringed.

“_Hello?” _Mrs. Evans sounded exactly as sweet as Crowley remembered.

“It's Crowley. Just wanted to tell you I made it. I didn't get the chance to call you yesterday, sorry about that”

“_I'm so glad to hear from you darling! How are you? Are you okay?” _she asked excitedly. Crowley couldn't suppress a small smile.

“Yeah. I think I'll be” he answered. 

It was weird how much he believed his own words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay thanks for reading. I really hope you liked it. English is not my first language, so any tips you have or any thing you want to point out will really help me :) 
> 
> you can find me at @heavenlyfuckers and @mrdrugzzz
> 
> Thanks a lot my friends I hope writing keeps us united. 
> 
> (I am also very high sorry if this doesn't make sense.)

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment, it makes me write faster! Thanks for reading and see you Tuesday :)


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